


Compromises

by JE_Talveran



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JE_Talveran/pseuds/JE_Talveran
Summary: You have rules about these sort of things, a long list of tried-and-true unbreakable lines in the sand that have allowed you to live a thousand years without attachment and will allow you to endure a thousand more. And the moment you decide to flippantly agree to Proudmoore’s insipid, drunken suggestion - you start breaking them.





	Compromises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [budgiebum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/budgiebum/gifts).



> This is completely unedited and more like a happy little gift for some of my buddies on the Sylvaina discord. Also, a mild apology for Timeless' slow-burning. Enjoy!

You have rules about these sort of things, a long list of tried-and-true unbreakable lines in the sand that have allowed you to live a thousand years without attachment and will allow you to endure a thousand more. 

And the moment you decide to flippantly agree to Proudmoore’s insipid, drunken suggestion - you start breaking them.

One by one.

***

One. No kissing. Nothing so intimate when there are far more important things your mouth can be doing across her body at any one moment. For example; she trembles with want when your tongue swivels around the swell of her breast, or as it sweeps shuddering path of her stomach. You stop, always, just before the round of her hips to hear her mewl her discontent.

Long ago you came to accept that you were addicted to the art of drawing out achingly slow orgasms from your partners. You can easily lose yourself in the keening cries, the hot-breathed pants, and the tremulous moans while your mouth works over them. You acknowledge that you might have an oral fixation as you keep your mouth light against her body; your licks exploratory and teasing until your chin is soaking with her need and Proudmoore’s fisting her hand against her mouth because she has her own rules she’s desperately trying not to break.

You don’t count it as a kiss when she’s panting open-mouthed against your neck. Or when she’s lazily winding down and accidentally trails her lips across your cheek. Or when she’s staring at your mouth like you’re the first sight of land after months at sea - those moments are when your resolve crumbles just enough that you have to pull away, have to say something cutting to shove her back out onto that desolate ocean. 

***

No Touching is your second rule. Proudmoore seems to think it’s a recent addition to your list, and treats it with a reverence that you do not deserve. You watch as she struggles to find purchase for her hands anywhere but you. You know she longs to stroke her fingers down the shell of your ear, or to trace her wetness on your lips before you can clean it away with a leisurely swipe of your tongue. 

Proudmoore’s cracked walls with arcane energy before she’s laid hands on you. Usually, because you’re pinning her against said wall, your hands slipping into her leggings as your mouth is cold against her neck. You get a particularly sadistic enjoyment when you can deride her latest thoughts on the war effort while you’re dismantling her placid facade one thrust of your fingers at a time. 

One time, you drag her to the edge of oblivion and casually muse over announcing to the rest of the Alliance that Proudmoore’s vaunted peace came at your will - not hers. Her eyes flash like the ocean, arcane burns through her pupils even as she’s clenching around your fingers and rolling her hips because you’re not deep enough, she’s not spread enough - it’s not enough.

You don’t comment when she withdraws her hand from the nape of your neck, and you definitely don’t drawl a witty observation that it’s a good thing you’re already dead, or she’d have drawn blood with those nails. No, of course not. You’re too busy assisting her back to some mockery of composure because those are boot-heels you hear coming down the hall.

And while you’ll use her horrible taste in coping mechanisms to rock her into a deliciously guilty orgasm, you’re the only one that gets to see her fall apart and come back together. 

***

No Approaching First is the last of your big three.

You don’t simper and fawn like the recruits that once scrambled for any scrap of your attention. You will not debase yourself by missing that quiet, breathless laughter as Proudmoore comes down from the highs you bring her to. Oh no, she has to break first before you consider another rendezvous. You’re not overstepping when you keep your focus on her during the war meetings; you’re just admiring the way she fidgets under your stare.

You like making her uncomfortable. You have enough of your living senses that you can smell the bloom of her arousal. You can hear the shift of fabric as she adjusts her seat. You love how her gaze darkens to a hurricane slate as she becomes unable to take her sight off of you in return.

That’s when you call for a recess. Proudmoore can’t look that wanton in public without someone else catching on.

Like Alleria, who has the sight of an eagle and the curiosity of a vexing cat, and the curious timing of someone who might even care about you stealing a moment of happiness because you know damned well Greymane was about to ask Proudmoore to go over shipping routes with him.

It’s still Proudmoore that snatches at your cloak when you stroll out through the ruined section of the estate. It’s still Proudmoore that brings your hands against the supple curves of her body and hides her flushed state against the cold shadow of your neck.

***

You have rules about these sort of things, a long list of tried-and-true unbreakable lines in the sand that have allowed you to live a thousand years without attachment and will allow you to endure a thousand more. 

And the moment you decide to flippantly agree to Proudmoore’s insipid, drunken suggestion - you haven’t broken a single one.

Not a one.


End file.
